For Old Times' Sake
by the ramblin rose
Summary: Caryl AU. Oneshot. Curiosity took him back there, where no one remembered him. But she remembered him. Carol/Daryl


**AN: Here we go. This tumblr prompt wanted Daryl and Carol meeting at a high school reunion.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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It had been twenty five years since Daryl's high school graduation. Arguably, it had been the greatest of his accomplishments. He couldn't really think of anything that he'd done worth mentioning in the twenty five years since he'd slinked across the stage, accepted his diploma, and then gone out to the diner on the highway to eat—Merle's treat—to celebrate.

He didn't normally think about how ridiculously worthless his life had been, or how big of a failure it had been in comparison to the lives of others, but this time it had started as soon as the envelope had somehow found him.

It had been twenty five years since he graduated, but it had also been twenty five years since he'd left this piece of shit town, moved across the entire state, and settled in a different piece of shit town.

For Daryl and Merle both, it had been a type of escape. They'd left the town behind like leaving behind certain geographical markers and run-down buildings would allow them to leave their lives behind. They'd left like it would allow them to leave themselves behind—all that they'd been.

The truth was that they'd carried it all with them. The only thing they'd left behind were the people who remembered them. They hadn't missed them, though—not one bit.

Except—Daryl was curious.

And pure curiosity was the only reason that he'd driven back to that sorry ass little town. Curiosity had made him pull, slower than he would have admitted, by the plot of land where the house had once stood that he'd called home as a skinny ass kid.

It was gone now, of course, but it had been gone before they'd left. Another house stood it in its place.

He drove past, too, the place where their trailer had been. It was the first place he and Merle had lived together, alone, despite the fact that they were probably too young and were definitely too irresponsible to have been living alone. The lot was still there, but there was a new trailer.

Not much at all, really, had changed in the town and it was easy enough for Daryl to get a motel room at the little shanty-like motel where he knew that Merle had spent too many nights before they'd left. Of course—Merle was ten years older than Daryl and thirty had been right around the corner when he'd driven the truck right out of that hell-hole town. Merle wasn't coming back, either. Not now. Not ever. He'd had enough, he said, for his whole life. Besides—Merle had never graduated high school, even though he'd declared that hell would freeze over before he let Daryl drop out.

His high school diploma hadn't served him any better than Merle's GRE, but it was his only real accomplishment in life, so maybe that's why Merle had been so determined he get it.

Daryl had a little while before the reunion, so he'd had dinner at the little café. He ordered the same thing he ate the last time he was there. The food was the same. The plates were the same. The décor was the same. The only thing, that he could see, that had changed in twenty five years was the waitress. His tip changed, too, because the prices were a little different than he remembered.

When he got to the reunion, he wrote his name in scribbled script on a sticker and stuck it to his chest. He doubted anyone there would remember him. And if they remembered him? He doubted they'd recognize him. Eighteen and forty three looked a lot different on him.

Glancing around? It looked a lot different on everyone.

Daryl helped himself to some of the stuff that they called punch. He assumed "Mixed-Together-Kool-Aid-Flavors" didn't fit so nicely on the little card in front of the oversized bowls.

Then he started walking around the room.

From a pretty good distance he could read most of the name tags. Some names he thought he vaguely remembered. Others? He was sure he'd never heard them. Still, many of the women were nice enough to put their maiden names right on their tags along with their married names and Daryl assumed that some of the people that were there—ones he could have sworn he'd never heard of in his whole life—were married to some of the others.

Lots of people were married.

Daryl had never married. He'd had one relationship that was barely worth being called significant. It had lasted five months. They hadn't even been a good five months.

He'd wanted to get married, or at least he'd thought that he might like it, but he just hadn't found the right person. He wasn't too sure that the right person existed. At this point? He was pretty sure that he was going to spend the rest of his life living with his brother—just like he'd spent the whole of his life thus far. He'd probably still be seventy years old, living with eighty year old Merle, and working at the same dead end job that paid their bills and put a couple of extra bucks in their pockets each week.

It wasn't a nice story to tell anyone. Because of that, Daryl didn't bother to tell it to anyone. He just walked around the room, nursing his punch, and reading the tags that everyone wore stuck to their chests.

Some of them looked like they were having the time of their lives. They had better stories to tell. Some of them showed pictures to others on their phone—kids, grandkids, vacations. Daryl didn't have kids or grandkids either—and he'd never been on a vacation. His phone didn't even take decent pictures and the last one he'd taken with it was the first one he'd taken. It was just a picture of the ground outside the place he called home now and it had only been taken for the novelty of seeing if he could manage to take one on the phone when he'd gotten it.

He hadn't been there too terribly long before he was trying to decide when he was allowed to go. He didn't figure that anyone was going to miss him if he left—just like they hadn't missed him when he'd left town the first time around. He couldn't even remember why the hell he'd come. He'd been curious about what had happened to everyone, but now that didn't seem to make any sense to him.

He hadn't cared about these people then. They hadn't cared about him.

And he didn't care about them now.

He had another cup of the kamikaze Kool-Aid drink and tossed the plastic cup into the trash can. He was just about to check out of the whole thing entirely, make his way back out the door that he'd come in, when he bumped into someone else who was trying to dart out the door as fast as he was.

He backed up, apologized to the woman quickly for nearly knocking her down, and she thanked him and uttered her own apology—she should've been paying attention, she said, but she just wasn't.

It was OK. It didn't matter anyway. No harm was done.

Daryl gestured to the woman, allowing her to step out first, and she thanked him for it before she walked in front of him and out of the room. He followed her, trying not to give into his baser instincts to look her up and down from behind, and he let her lead the way down the hallway too. He only touched her shoulder, slowing her down, as they neared the end of the hall. When she slowed, he reached around her and opened the glass door to let her out.

She smiled and thanked him again.

There was something familiar about her. There was something in her eyes that he was sure he'd seen before, but he couldn't put his finger on it. They were pretty eyes, though, so they would've drawn his attention. That's probably all he really remembered—someone in high school had beautiful eyes.

She looked at him a little oddly, and Daryl checked himself to make sure that he wasn't making any type of offensive expression on accident.

"Daryl?" She asked.

Daryl glanced down at his sticker name tag. It was right there for the world to see. He was Daryl Dixon. He always had been. He always would be. Even if he married, which he never would, that would never change.

But he decided not to be an asshole.

"Yeah," he said. "Daryl."

He looked for her name tag, but she'd already gotten rid of it.

"Daryl," he repeated, because he wasn't sure what else he might say.

The woman smiled.

"Daryl Dixon—I remember you!" She cooed.

He chewed his lip and nodded.

"Do you remember me?" She asked. "Carol? Carol McAlister? We had biology together. You..."

She broke off and laughed.

"You killed my frog for me because I couldn't do it," Carol said.

Daryl smiled to himself. He vaguely remembered this, if in fact it had ever happened, but he couldn't help but smile because her smile was so sincere. It was contagious.

"Yeah—well—you're welcome," Daryl said.

"You don't remember me?" Carol asked.

Daryl shook his head.

"No," he admitted, a little sheepish. "I'm sorry. I don't remember. But—I forget a lot of things. Forgot most of high school."

Carol smiled.

"I forget a lot of things too," she said. She raised her eyebrows at him. "Most of it on purpose."

She glanced around, more than likely checking to see if they were blocking the doorway, but there was nobody else trying to escape just yet. Daryl glanced around when she did, but seeing that she seemed to have no intention of moving for the moment, he felt around in his pocket and came up with a cigarette. She watched him, very intently, when he put it to his lips and lit it.

He offered her the pack, figuring that's what she was after, but she shook her head. She shifted her weight, though, moved a little to his side, and then stood there like she intended to at least keep him company while he smoked.

Daryl wasn't complaining. The company of a beautiful woman from his past—even if he didn't remember her—wasn't at all bothersome to him.

"But you remember me?" He asked.

"Hmmm?" She hummed.

"Said you forget a lot of shit," Daryl said. "On purpose. But—you remember me?"

Carol renewed her smile from before.

"Of course I remember you," she said. "Back then? I had a crush on you. But—I guess you never noticed me."

Daryl felt a strange catch in his chest. He looked at her. There was something there. There was something so familiar about her. But it was like having a word on the tip of his tongue that he couldn't quite spit out. It was there, but it wasn't within his reach.

"Who are you?" Daryl asked.

"Carol McAlister," Carol said. "Carol Ann McAlister."

She shrugged.

"I married Ed Peletier, but we've been divorced for—four years now? I have a daughter, but you wouldn't have known her because she wasn't born in high school. I took Biology with you. We were in—homeroom together. You took shop. You always ate your lunch out by the trees in front of the shop building."

"You married who?" Daryl asked.

"Ed Peletier," Carol said. "I married him just out of high school. He was my high school boyfriend. Only boy I ever dated."

It struck Daryl suddenly.

"Ed Peletier?" Daryl asked, his voice going up in a way that he hadn't expected. Carol backed up a half a step. Daryl reminded himself not to be so loud. She nodded. "That asshole...was you dating him in high school?"

Carol nodded again.

"From junior year—no, sophomore—until I married him. June after graduation," Carol said.

"Holy shit!" Daryl spat. "I busted his damn jaw in the parkin' lot for slammin' you up against the car trunk one morning!"

Carol looked at him, wide eyed. She nodded.

"I remember because you were crying. You were saying that I just didn't know what'd happened. That—you'd done some damn thing or another and that he'd done it because of that," Daryl said. He sucked his teeth and shook his head as the memory came flashing back. "My brother was so damn pissed off. Got suspended two days for that. Ed—walked off clean and free."

He stopped himself, realizing that maybe he shouldn't be saying what he was saying, and he looked at Carol and shook his head.

"Listen—sorry," Daryl said. "I shouldn't be talking about your husband."

Carol offered him a soft smile.

"He's not my husband," she said. "He's my ex-husband. And—as it turns out? It was my fault that day. And it was my fault every other time he ever—did anything. At least, to hear Ed tell it, it was."

Daryl felt another catch.

She looked almost cheerful, her smile barely fading as she recited facts to him, but he knew what it meant. She'd ended up married to the man and he'd ended up doing just what Daryl had thought he would—treating her like a punching bag.

Daryl squinted his eyes at her, now that his memory recalled her, and searched for any sign of her seventeen year old self. Now? Now he could see it. It was just like finding the word on the tip of your tongue and thinking you were stupid for not remembering something so simple before.

"I remember you," he said.

Carol smiled.

"Good," she said. "I remember you, too."

Daryl swallowed.

In high school? She'd been a quiet and cute girl. She hadn't been popular, exactly, but everyone had liked her. She'd been one of those girls that everyone knew and everyone liked, even if she wasn't pep-squad material and she wasn't going to be voted prom queen or whatever. In fact—if Daryl remembered correctly, she'd gotten something like most friendly in their senior yearbook.

It was still true.

"You had a crush on me?" He asked, feeling his cheeks burn hot.

Carol blushed slightly, but she nodded.

"But you never noticed me," Carol said, matter of factly.

Daryl swallowed.

"Oh—I noticed," he said. "You just—I just weren't..."

He stopped, finding himself stumbling over his words, and then started again.

"Just figured that I weren't your type," Daryl said. "I weren't nobody's type."

Carol hummed.

"But you're somebody's type?" She asked.

"Not to date," Daryl said. "Not to speak of. And your type—was Ed Peletier."

Carol's smile faded, but it returned quickly. She sucked in a breath, her lips parted like she was going to speak, but it took her a moment to get around to producing words.

"My daughter's babysitter is still good for a couple of hours," Carol said.

Daryl didn't respond because he didn't know what to say.

"Maybe my type wasn't Ed Peletier," Carol said. "He certainly wasn't good for me. Are you hungry?"

Daryl stared at her.

"Are you asking me to go eat?" Daryl asked.

Carol looked behind him, toward the building, and then back toward him. She was blushing, but she soldiered on.

"Were you just coming out to smoke?" Carol asked. "Or were you staying?"

Daryl looked back at the building like the pile of bricks and mortar might answer this for him. Suddenly? His heart rate had increased and he was finding it a little bit difficult to figure out how to navigate this once simple interaction. There was, after all, more than one reason that his most significant relationship hadn't been much to speak of.

"Nothing here for me," Daryl said.

Carol smiled and then raised her eyebrows at him once more.

"Me either," she said. "So I'm going—and I'm hungry. And—I'm going to eat something while I still have a babysitter. You're welcome to come along, if you want to. For old times' sake?"

Daryl swallowed. He realized this might be the best invitation he ever got. It would, if he didn't take it, certainly be the only invitation he ever got from Carol because she was already turning, angling her body to start walking toward wherever she'd parked.

He had to act, so he nodded and stammered out his response.

"For old times' sake," he said.

And as soon as he said it, and as soon as she looked as pleased as she did with his acceptance of the invitation, Daryl felt a little bolder.

"I know a good diner," he said, walking in the direction that she was headed—where all the vehicles were parked. "If it sounds good to you. Used to eat there a lot in high school."


End file.
